


And I Thought You Might Be Mine

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 00:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10231781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: Clarke has a habit of stealing Bellamy's clothes and it's... interesting to say the least.





	

**Author's Note:**

> BFF fill for the prompt: tol: is that my shirt? smol, wearing a shirt that goes down to their knees: ... no

Bellamy is aware that living with Clarke was going to come with some challenges.

(Or, as Octavia put it, rather excitedly, “It’s going to be a total fucking shitshow, and Raven and I have a bet going on who would commit murder first.”)

But despite their friends utmost certainty that things were going to crash and burn within the first week, they’ve been happily living together for the past six months, so he made sure to tell them to suck it after they hit the two week mark, because he’s a responsible adult.

That isn’t to say that it’s a walk in the park either. He and Clarke still argue about every little thing, but that’s just how they communicate. Now they just add arguing about domestic things such as whose turn it is to do the dishes, or why hasn’t he taken out the trash yet into the mix as well. He maybe likes it a bit too much, but no one needs to know about that.

He’s also become privy to a lot more of her quirks which- he likes to think that being friends, or at least acquaintances, with Clarke for over four years meant that he knew her fairly well, but once they move in, it becomes a whole other story.

For example, he learns that despite being left handed, she brushes her hair and teeth with her right, she always has to keep a full cup of water on her bedside table at night, and she needs more pillows than necessary to sleep.

Perhaps the most interesting quirk of hers is that she’s  _ always stealing his clothes, all the fucking time. _

At first she starts off small; she moves in with him near the end of autumn, when the chill lurks heavily in the air, and Bellamy guesses that he’s partially to blame for starting the whole thing.

“Where’s your scarf?” he frowns when she meets him out by the car.

She shrugs, shoving her hands in her coat pockets. “No idea. I don’t think I unpacked it yet.”

She says it easily enough, as though it’s not some big deal that she’s walking around with her throat exposed, just begging to catch a cold, and his jaw drops.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says, immediately unknotting his and looping it around her neck. He has on a turtleneck sweater under his coat, he’ll be fine. “It’s like you  _ want  _ to die.”

“I don’t need you to mother me,” she snaps, even as she fixes it properly, and Bellamy just grumbles under his breath about her irresponsibility while ushering her to the car.

He doesn’t get the scarf back after that. In fact, he loses a handful of other objects to her as well: his red knit beanie, a pair of gloves, he even spots her puttering around the apartment in one of his sweaters one time, a thick grey cableknit that hangs off her tiny frame and it had him almost walking into a wall.

“Don’t you have your own clothes?” he asks, watching as she climbs up on a chair to pack the dishes away on the top shelf.

She just throws a baleful glare at him. “I do, but  _ someone  _ refuses to turn the heat up and it was either this or my winter coat.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just pulls a face and wanders out of the kitchen.

A couple hours later Clarke pads into his room, her sock clad feet sliding against the floor. “You know, you could have  _ told  _ me you turned the heat up like a normal person instead of hiding out and waiting for me to realise,” she says, leaning against the desk. She’s slipped out of the sweater to reveal the tighter fitting long sleeve she wore underneath, and holds the sweater in her hands.

Bellamy shrugs, tapping his pen against the outside of his thigh. “But where’s the fun in that?” he asks with a smarmy smile, and she throws the sweater at his face with a huff.

“You’re such a dick,” she tells him, struggling to keep her grin at bay, before she turns on her heel to leave.

“You knew that and still chose to move in with me!” he calls after her retreating figure, and then snorts when she flips him off behind her back.

It doesn’t do anything to dissuade her from taking his clothes; quite the contrary in fact. He gets used to seeing her in his oversized sweaters, stealing his hoodies at the movie theatre, shrugging his flannel shirts over her t-shirts and tank tops when the weather starts to warm up.

He doesn’t know how or when she gets her hands on them since she never comes into his room unless necessary, but each time she goes out wearing something of his, it sends a little thrill through his heart, and he thinks about what other people might see when they look at her dressed like that while out with him, yearning for the day that it might actually be true.

Bellamy isn’t  _ completely  _ inept at emotions, no matter what his sister might say. He’s aware of his feelings for Clarke, and has been for a while.

Aware in the sense that he knows that he likes working out their monthly budget together and bickering over groceries, and he’d like to continue doing all of this for the rest of his life, ideally while being able to hold her hand and kiss her whenever he wanted.

(And maybe eventually adopt a dog, get married, have a few kids… he has a long term plan here, one that sounds ridiculously sappy if spoken aloud.)

He’s more than content to keep his relationship with Clarke where it is though, nothing more than friendship and roommates, and he doesn’t plan on jeopardising that anytime soon.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from coming startlingly close to doing just that one evening when he comes home early from work, and finds her in nothing but an oversized blue t shirt-  _ his  _ oversized blue t-shirt- as she enthusiastically lip syncs along to the boppy pop song blasting from the speakers as she cleans.

For a moment he can’t do anything but stare; at the miles of creamy smooth skin left uncovered, at her unruly curls fighting against the constraints of the hair tie keeping it bound on the top of her head, at the slight shimmy of her hips that leaves him ducking his head, a fond grin making itself known.

And then he ends up swearing out loud as he bangs his knee against the side of the entryway dresser, causing her to whip around with a shriek.

“Fucking  _ Christ _ ,” he wheezes, leaning against the wall as he clutches his kneecap.

“Are you alright?” she asks, immediately dropping the cloth she was using to wipe down the coffee table as she walks over, hands fluttering about him.

He bats them away impatiently, straightening up. “I’m fine, I’m fine; I was just… distracted. Wasn’t watching where I was going,” he tells her, feeling a dull flush creep up the back of his neck.

She still watches him warily, even as he limps over to the couch to sit. “If you’re sure,” she says, before flashing him a smirk, “I know you’re an old man and all that. Wouldn’t want to have to take you in to get a knee replacement.”

“Shut up or I’ll cancel the Thai take out I ordered.”

“You are young and lean and sparkling from that youthful glow,” she corrects herself promptly, and he can’t help but bark out a laugh. Clarke grins down at him and says, “I’m still going to get you an ice pack for that knee though. Just in case,” before squeezing his shoulder and walking away.

He watches her leave- or, more accurately, he watches how the hem of the shirt trails high on her thigh, barely covering anything and causing his mouth to go dry- before he tips his head back and groans, eyes screwed shut.

It’s not like it’s a secret that she steals his clothes to wear from time to time, but she’s usually wearing them with other  _ things _ , not alone where he can catch a glimpse of the lime green cotton of her underwear if she so much as stretches her arms up. He vaguely wonders if her bra is the same colour before realising that her shoulder was bare the entire time, without a strap to be found, and he groans again.

That thought alone is enough to drive him mad, and he finally ends up blurting out, “Is that my shirt?” when she returns.

Really, it’s a miracle that he managed to last as long as he did without asking.

Clarke freezes like a deer in headlights, knuckles turning bone white as she grasps the ice pack tightly.

“Um… no?” she says hesitantly, cheeks aflame.

It’s a weak lie, and they both know it; in addition to it obviously being several sizes too big, it’s cut in a men’s style, and he’s had it for so long, that he would recognise it anywhere, from the rip in the left sleeve to the small holes that dot the collar. He lifts a single, incredulous eyebrow, and her blush darkens.

“Well, you weren’t supposed to find out,” she says defensively, crossing her arms. “I forgot to do laundry and this was  _ right there _ so I-”

“It wasn’t ‘right there’,” he interrupts with a shake of his head, “I haven’t worn that shirt in forever; it’s been relegated to the back of my closet.”

“Can’t you at least let me save face with one lie?” she huffs, and he cracks a grin.

“Nope,” he says, popping the p, and she kicks him lightly in the shins. “Careful, I’m already injured.”

“You’ll live,” she says dryly, and hands over the ice pack.

He mutters his thanks as he takes it, fixing it atop his throbbing knee, before looking back up at her. Clarke is still standing in front of him in just the stupid shirt, bottom lip caught between her teeth, and he should probably leave before he does something very stupid, very impulsive, or both.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from asking, curious, “Why this one though? Why not something else?”

She shrugs, dropping her gaze, and her flush- which had only just started to fade- returns with a vengeance.

“No comment,” she says stiffly, picking at a loose thread.

“Aw, come on princess-”

“I really rather not-”

“How embarrassing can it be?”

“Surprisingly,  _ very _ ,” she says self deprecatingly. 

He continues to nudge her repeatedly with his foot, until she kicks him again, this time harder and he grins. “You’re so fucking annoying,” she tells him.

“I spend my days around teenagers; it was bound to diffuse over eventually.”

“No, you were still annoying before you started teaching,” she says. “Perhaps moreso.”

He nudges her again, “Stop trying to change the subject.”

“Because I  _ like  _ this one,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. “Are you happy now? I like this one and it looks good on you and I was sad you stopped wearing it.”

It’s a lot to take in, Clarke standing there, chest heaving and cheeks painted red as she looks anywhere but at him.

Bellamy swallows thickly, and then, ever so slowly, he lets his fingers slip into hers.

“If it helps, you look good in it,” he says, trying to keep his voice light despite the fact that it feels like his heart has migrated up to his throat, thudding loudly. “Probably even better than me.”

“It’s not  _ that  _ hard to look better than you,” she teases, but she also squeezes his fingers back in return.

“I’m trying to have a  _ moment  _ here, goddammit,” he huffs, even as a truly stupid smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “You’ve ruined the moment, Clarke, I hope you’re happy.”

She ducks her head, and a soft chuckle slips out. “Sorry for ruining your moment,” she says, “Carry on now. I’ll behave.”

“I don’t think I want to,” he replies, just to be difficult.

“Such a  _ baby _ ,” she grins widely, and twists their hands so that their fingers are linked. “I don’t even know why I like you.”

“Well, I don’t even know why I like  _ you _ ,” he counters, even as he tugs her closer.

As far as romantic declarations go, it’s not his finest moment, nor is it how he ever pictured letting her in on his little secret, but then Clarke is still grinning as she slides onto his lap, and his hands automatically go to her hips, holding her steady.

When he leans in to kiss her, it’s like a bowstring being released, and a flood of relief rushes out of him when her hand twines into his hair, pressing her lips firmly against his. They trade languid kisses back and forth, so slow and soft and sweet that Bellamy is certain that he would melt right at that moment. There’s nothing else left in this world, nothing but Clarke, Clarke, Clarke, all smooth skin, and breathy sighs, and a curtain of gold hair that falls around them when he manages to get the elastic out.

Neither of them go far when they part; she rests her head on his shoulder for a moment, breathing him in, and he shift his arm to loop around her waist, pulling her closer.

“Hi,” she says, bumping her nose against his jaw. There’s a gigantic grin splitting her face, and Bellamy is certain that it’s mirrored on his own.

“Hi,” he replies, kissing her forehead.

“As much as I’m sure I look good in your shirt, I’m also sure that I’ll look good out of it too,” she breathes, pointedly rocking down on top of him as she presses their foreheads together. “Maybe even better.”

He just laughs, pulling her back down for a searing kiss, during which Clarke takes the chance to lick the mirth out of his mouth, and he lets his free hand rest against her neck, feeling her fluttering pulse.

“Well we’ll just have to find out, don’t we?” he says, after he pulls away, and then stands suddenly, making her shriek and wrap her limbs around him so that she doesn’t fall.

“You’re such a dick,” she laughs once she regains her footing, still leaning into him with her arms around his neck.

“But you like me,” he says cheekily, and her smile turns into something softer, more intimate.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, playing with the ends of his hair, “yeah, I like you.”

It feels like his heart has expanded several sizes in the past few minutes, and he’s about to float away with how happy he’s become. Instead, he just cups her jaw, thumb swiping over her cheekbone as he says, “I like you too,” and then kisses her once more, just because he can.


End file.
